


or, the modern prometheus

by NODIGNITY



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: a heavy handed jumbled mish mash of pretentious literary references, published a week before tpp came out so not canon compliant lol, sad bitter old men in pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:00:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4613865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NODIGNITY/pseuds/NODIGNITY
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...a vulture feeds upon that heart for ever; that vulture the very creature he creates."</p><p>A series of meetings and the phantom that haunts them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	or, the modern prometheus

**Author's Note:**

> contradicts some paracanon stuff; will definitely get jossed to hell and back by actual canon next week, but let me have my fun before we all get played like fiddles.
> 
> needle stuff/drugs in the first and especially fifth parts; imagery or depictions of fire/burning and drowning/suffocating throughout; emotional manipulation is a given because ~little ocelot things~

**i.** _thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin_

The first time they meet, Kaz hears him before he sees him. There's a clinking, jangly metal sound echoing through the hallways of the hospital where he and Snake have been laid up. _I must be finally losing my fucking mind,_ Kaz thinks to himself, _hearing fucking cowboys in this godforsaken place_. After what happened to Mother Base--to his men, his boss--and now being holed up in this too-bright, too-sterile hospital room, surrounded by doctors and nurses who won't tell him a damn thing about when Snake is going to get better--maybe it wouldn't be so surprising.

The noise grows louder as a tall-ish blond man saunters into the room. He's a somewhat bizarre sight to behold, military neatness with gunslinger edges: red scarf arranged just so around the neck, an open black overcoat with a leather holster peeking out at his side, pressed dark trousers tucked into polished officer boots, and yes, _spurs_. The stranger motions with one gloved hand for the nurse to leave, then turns to look down at Kaz. There's not much that Kaz can do but look back, stuck in bed with a busted leg and chained to the needle of an IV as he is.

"Kazuhira Miller, sub-commander of _Militaires Sans Frontières_ , formerly with the Japan Self-Defense Forces," the man announces rather than asks, punctuated with excessively grandiose arm gestures.

Kaz hates him already.

"Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?" Kaz is still aching all over from the helicopter crash, his heart is already festering with rage, and cabin fever is driving him up the wall. He doesn't have the liberty to be courteous right now, especially not to prying unknowns.

"Call me Ocelot," he replies, quickly scanning the room and its occupant. Assessing him, really, with icicle blue eyes. "Your commander and I...have history together, let's put it that way."

"That doesn't exactly answer my question. How the hell did you find us in the first place?"

Ocelot responds with a dramatic sweep of a shrug. "That's not important. What I came to talk about is Snake."

Every goddamn thing about him reeks of suspicion. Hell, even in lighter circumstances his entire demeanor would've set Kaz on edge, but he can't just dismiss out of hand someone who's asking after the boss right now. Humor the stranger, see what he wants, and then dispose of him accordingly. "Yeah? What about him?"

"He's being moved as soon as his condition stabilizes," Ocelot says, in the same matter-of-fact manner that Kaz would have told Snake about the location of an enemy outpost. 

"What the fuck--under whose authority?!" Kaz bellows, trying to lunge forward from his seated position on the bed; the needle in his arm pulls at his vein, threatening to pop out. "You expect me to let some fucking asshole out of nowhere take my boss away?! Where--who the fuck do you think you are, anyway?"

"This isn't a secure location," Ocelot continues, ignoring the spitting fury of the man in front of him, "considering how easily I found it, for one thing. Anybody could get their hands on you two here."

Kaz feels as if his blood might literally boil over. "Oh, and I'm supposed to think that you're not one of those people, then? Why don't you answer my questions and tell me how the fuck I'm supposed to just give Snake over to you, you weaselly little _shit_."

Ocelot's eyes glint harshly under the fluorescent hospital lights as his mouth twists into a sneer. "Miller, you seem to be operating under the mistaken belief that I'm supposed to get _you_ to trust _me_ , when it should be the very opposite."

And Kaz raises his hackles again at that implication, practically snarling, "What the fuck are you trying to say? I just saw my fucking home burn up before my eyes and you're calling me a goddamn turncoat?! I spent _two years_ with Snake building MSF from the ground up, that was our dream--" 

"Two years?" Ocelot scoffs, condescension gracing his already-arrogant features. "Two years is nothing when you're talking undercover work! I've been in the spy business longer than you've been alive, and I know a rat when I see one."

Kaz's indignation temporarily gives way to the slightest bit of confusion at Ocelot's last statement. The man standing before him can't possibly be more than a few years his senior, despite the lines already creeping onto his face. Meanwhile, Ocelot seems to be recollecting his composure, like he's blurted out a bit more information than he would have liked. There's stress and worry starting to crack through that self-assured mask.

"Miller," he starts again, voice low and head turned, eyes boring holes through the wall into the next room, where Snake is held up, "there's no shortage of people after Snake, looking to use him for their own purposes--or to just kill him."

"For fuck's sake, you think I don't know that?! I'm telling you for the last time, if you think you can just waltz in here and--"

"I know you've been in talks with Cipher," Ocelot interrupts bluntly, making Kaz's insides turn into ice. "You may have been just _business partners_ ," and he says this with exaggerated quotation gestures, obnoxious prick, "but you've already proven yourself to be a liability. I'm not here to win your trust, I'm here to keep Snake from harm. His safety is my top priority, and that is going to be guaranteed with or without your approval." 

Instead of responding, Kaz is breathing hard with both rage and sudden anxiety-- _he knows about Cipher, just who the hell is he, how does he know I've been--unless--_

"He'll get nothing but the best, in terms of care. You can handle whatever business you've got on your end without that weighing on your mind, at least," and Ocelot adds as an ironic little aside, "you can trust me on that." His mouth stretches into a tight smile as he turns sharply to leave, spurs jangling with every step. "Anyway, I'll be sure to keep you updated on his condition."

" _FUCK YOU_ ," Kaz finally manages to scream out toward the retreating figure. Sick with frustration and strung-up nerves, all he can do is smash the bedside stand with his fist, scaring the nurse who's now coming in to check on him. He wonders, madly, if he could sneak out of the hospital on a bad leg, hauling a comatose two-hundred-something pound supersoldier around on his shoulders. _Fat chance._

What a fine fucking mess they've gotten themselves into this time.

 

 

*

 

 

 **ii.** _winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves_

They're standing in a disused hallway of yet another hospital as the new decade rings itself in. These periodic hospital moves are absolutely necessary to keep their pursuers off their tail, but it's a tremendous fucking hassle each time. It's the first time Kaz has been present for one, too; getting his and Ocelot's schedules to line up while simultaneously avoiding Cipher's ever-watchful eyes was nothing short of a miracle. _Vultures everywhere, just waiting to tear us apart and feast on what remains._

The months spent waiting for Snake to awaken from his death-like slumber have stretched into years. Kaz can't say he and Ocelot have gotten more comfortable with each other in that time, but they've settled into an uneasy alliance despite their rocky start. (Not quite "strange bedfellows," as Snake had said a lifetime ago.) They've got no choice but to cooperate if they're going to keep the boss safe from harm, and in terms of connections Ocelot more than pulls his own weight. His habit of trying to explain things while simultaneously divulging as little information as possible, however, will never not frustrate Kaz to no end.

They've met in person only a handful of times in the last few years, and honestly, Ocelot looks worse and worse each time. His once-platinum blond hair is now almost all silvery gray, and his overly-theatrical trickster nature can't hide the deepening creases of his face. He's gone nearly full cowboy too, dressed up in a long duster and conspicuously showing off the bare beginnings of stubble growing in. The carefully polished boots and spurs go without saying.

(It really is a peculiar costume, considering what precious little information on him that Kaz has managed to glean so far. Official records and the like had been disappointingly and eerily sparse, and he'd had to rely on word of mouth much more than he'd like, but: Ocelot had attained the rank of major within GRU at a tender young age, he'd been involved in Operation Snake Eater somehow, which was probably when he met Snake, and after that he'd gone gallivanting around the world on both Soviet and mercenary business. None of this, of course, had come from the man's mouth himself. _He sure doesn't sound like a Russkie_ , Kaz muses about Ocelot's cowboy drawl, more noticeable now than when they had first met. But then again, English isn't Kaz's first language either.)

And he hasn't yet been able to divine _why_ exactly Ocelot is so dedicated to Big Boss, just the fact that he _is_ , unfailingly--or seems to be, at least. Over the last few years Kaz has had to accept that beggars can't be choosers in this regard. _And if he does turn out to betray Snake,_ Kaz thinks with some grim satisfaction, _he's going to get what he fucking deserves._

They don't talk about Snake. They never do, beyond the perfunctory status updates.

Today was the first time that Kaz has been able to see his boss since after the fall of Mother Base (more like the first time Ocelot has deigned to let him see Snake, he thinks bitterly). Now they linger outside his room while a few carefully selected staff prepare him for the airlift. Ocelot is going over the details of the move yet again with some bald-headed doctor. Kaz leans back against a wall as he turns the still-fresh memory of the visit over and over again in his mind, as if trying to burn it into every synapse of his brain.

Previously he had thought, maybe, it would have been a tender reunion, a respite from all the back-breaking work of rebuilding, from hiding from their enemies like so many scared little mice. Maybe he would have knelt and wept at his commander's side, clasping Snake's remaining hand to his breast. A knight's fable turned soap opera drama.

He saw Snake sleeping peacefully, scars already starting to fade on a body grown emaciated and hooked up to god knows how many machines, and instead everything rose up bitter like bile. There was no wailing or gnashing of teeth. There was no tenderness to be had for them. _They took you,_ Kaz cursed, maybe out loud, maybe not, it was hard to tell in the heat of the moment, _our home, our comrades, our past and our future. And we'll take back everything from them._

Their time at the hospital is regrettably short ("Can't help that, we have to get moving as quickly as possible," Ocelot said), and Kaz's time alone with Snake had been even shorter. There are still so, so many things Kaz wants to say to him, as pointless as that may be right now.

But it really was a good thing, seeing the boss. Invigorating, almost. It all feels certain now, their path ahead lit up with bright electric clarity. They'll show the world just how savagely a cornered dog can bite. They'll chase after their revenge around the world, straight into the flames of hell if need be. Pangs of anticipation claw up his stomach at the thought. 

All Kaz has to do is set the stage for Snake's rebirth. Recouping their resources, gathering information, waiting in the shadows--all done for the day he rises back to life--and any day could be The Day, now.

"Arranging these moves is going to get a bit difficult from now on," Ocelot admits to Kaz after the doctor has gone back into Snake's room. "I'm going to have a lot of work on my hands these coming days."

"The hard life of a mercenary, eh? Where are you going this time?" Kaz asks, not expecting a straight answer in return.

"Afghanistan, haven't you heard? It's already been nearly a week since the occupation of Kabul, you know." Ocelot sweeps across the hallway with trademark panache to stand opposite of Kaz. "Your intel-gathering skills aren't quite up to snuff, are they, Miller? I can't fathom how MSF lasted as long as it did with a second-in-command like you."

Kaz just scoffs, trying not to let Ocelot's pointed barbs ruin his mood. On the other hand, Ocelot might as well be shouting at the top of his lungs that he knows Kaz knows about his Soviet affiliations, and Kaz is sorely tempted to respond to that challenge. Their banter (if it can even be called that) always feels a little petty, but it's all part of the weird mind games they can't help but play with each other.

"You got business in Afghanistan? Didn't know you were so...patriotic, comrade."

Ocelot smirks with feline satisfaction, apparently pleased that Kaz has caught on to his obvious baiting. "Not particularly, no, but they did ask for me personally. They're requesting certain services of mine."

"Oh yeah? Can't imagine why anyone would call in a guy just because he can spin some guns around, unless they're looking for advice on how to dress their troops up like Marlboro Man rejects. Is that it?"

"It's interrogation, actually." Ocelot looks him dead in the eyes, gaze cold and hard even through Kaz's shades, as he over-enunciates every syllable. "That's my specialty."

He lets those words hang in the air for a while, as if to make sure Kaz really _gets_ what he means by them. The atmosphere thickens; it looks like it's going to be yet another tense standoff between the two that will never get anywhere.

But Ocelot breaks eye contact first with a showy turn of his head, and barks out a laugh that seems almost genuine--as genuine as he can manage, anyway.

"Don't worry about it, Miller. It'll help me keep a lower profile, at the very least, and I know where my priorities lie. I'm at his beck and call," Ocelot levels his gaze at the door, at Snake lying beyond it, "to the end."

It feels like something in their relationship has changed, maybe, now that the three of them are all together in the same place at last, however briefly. There's the beginnings of a grin on Kaz's face as he nods in approval. "To the end."

 

 

*

 

 

 **iii.** _but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart_

Outer Heaven has fallen.

That's the news Miller wakes up to when a messenger knocks at the door to his quarters in the barely-morning hours. Against all odds, Solid Snake has succeeded in his mission to take down the renegade military-without-a-state and is currently en route back to FOXHOUND headquarters.

There are no other details yet beyond a maelstrom of rumors on the intel circuit-- _earthquakes in Galzburg, sightings of Metal Gear, nuclear explosions, NATO airstrike_ \--but Miller already knows all he needs to know. He dismisses the recruit after agreeing to be present at the debriefing later. 

The soldier salutes, and Miller barely manages to close the door on her without giving away the trembling in his hand. There's a flood of thoughts whirling through his head but he can't focus on any one of them. Mechanically, he goes around his room; he secures all the locks and closes the blinds to shut out the light of what's going to be a dismal and dreary November day. 

He sees a light flashing like a premonition on one of the communication units he has installed on his desk. Someone's trying to call him over the secure phone line. Miller steadies his breathing, one-two one-two, before answering.

"Miller." Ocelot's sandpaper voice rasps in his ear. The man sounds exhausted even over the slight fuzz of the phone, barely trying to keep up a strong front like he usually does. "Is there anyone in the room with you?"

"No. I'm alone."

"You must have heard the news by now."

"I...yes."

"He's still alive."

The revelation hits Miller like a concussive blast; he can barely draw breath, his flurry of thoughts held in numb suspension. 

"The damage is--it's not trivial, but he'll make it. I'm making contact with our usual people as we speak. And he's already responsive," Ocelot continues, with more urgency than is normal for him. Miller can hear the soft clink-clink-clink of his spurs--he's pacing. "It's not going to be like last time. It won't."

"That, that's good. Good to hear that." Miller feels the words coming out of his mouth without really registering them.

"Why did he..." Ocelot lets out a heavy sigh of frustration like he's been holding one in for days. "I should've been there, just why the hell did we let him _do_ that, and you even trained the little bastard, didn't you, fuck..."

Miller lets Ocelot mutter dark curses for a while, offering nothing more than cursory responses-- _I don't know, mmhm, yes, I know, that was a mistake_ \--while everything starts to coalesce in his mind. He can't yet identify the feeling that's been pounding in his every artery, straining every nerve since the start of their conversation. (Or maybe he's afraid to pinpoint it for some reason; a vague twinge of foreboding throbs in his gut. There's a small part of him that's terrified that Ocelot will somehow scent it out over the phone as soon as he does.)

He swallows hard and dry when the realization grips his heart as if to crush it.

It's disappointment.

"Looks like the project wasn't a total failure after all," Ocelot scoffs, grim and ironic, with no humor behind the words. "Well, Miller? What the hell are we going to do now?"

"Ocelot." He's trying to measure out his voice carefully but his head is still swimming and his heart feels like it's fit to burst; he was always more businessman than orator, diplomat, spy. "Have you ever...do you ever think of how--if this is ever going to end?" _Aren't you tired of all of this by now?_

There's a long, long pause between them, the edges of static hissing terribly in Miller's ears.

"Do you remember?" Ocelot's voice finally comes over the line soft--wistful--insidious-- "It's been over ten years, Miller, but I know you remember...when he finally woke up, when he came to save you, the first time you knew for sure it was _him_ standing in front of you--you remember how it felt, don't you?"

And Miller exhales sharply through his nose, eyes clamped shut as he can't help but recall that exact moment. A voice from long ago whispers right into his mind-- _Kaz. It's me._ The hair on his nape prickles up as he feels the ghostly memory of a hand cupping his face, and his stomach drops into a pit.

When exactly had things changed between them? When was it that he started feeling resentment billowing up in his throat like thick black smoke, acrid and choking, whenever he thought about him? When did he finally grow tired of this nauseating pressure building day by day, of holding conversations like dark, stagnating water, of feeling the writhing and squirming of loathing inside his gut like a mass of insects?

Did he ever in his life think that he would feel about Big Boss--his commander, his Snake--that way?

After they had left that heaving black sea, when their quenchless feud with Cipher had been forced to a sputtering ceasefire, they'd been given FOXHOUND as a consolation prize for their woes. It wasn't enough, of course it wouldn't have been, not in return for all the blood they had shed and all that they had lost. And not in return for what they would have to give up. 

But they had no choice but to continue on in this way, all their wounds scabbing over but never healing. His stolen arm and leg still throbbed with pain but nothing was so suffocating as being bound by Zero's chains like this, lashed to their former quarry and doomed to drown in its terrible wake. And knowing that Big Boss nonetheless continued pursuing their--his dream of unending battle, while he pretended to look the other way, spending his days training recruits and spouting bland aphorisms, the distance between the two of them widening like ice splitting rock...

"You don't need to remind me of anything, Ocelot," Miller ekes out a reply an eternity later. "Keep me notified of any news. I'll--I'll figure something out here on my end."

The line is silent again. Miller's brief wavering seems to weigh heavy and awful on their conversation now. _God, why did you have to fucking say that..._

"I wouldn't have told you this information if I didn't trust you, Kaz," Ocelot finally assures him before hanging up, but his voice is laced with the promise of a threat.

 

 

*

 

 

 **iv.** _I beheld the wretch--the miserable monster whom I had created_

_A hero, forever loyal to the flames of war._

The late light of an early January sunset filters in through gray clouds and the gnarled trees at Arlington. Miller stands in front of a fresh burial plot, reading the epitaph on the headstone over and over again with dull, aching incomprehension. The services have already ended but he's still drawn to the spot as if tangled in nets. 

Snake--David hadn't come to this sham of a funeral; he'd disappeared to god-knows-where immediately after Operation Intrude F014. _Good for him_ , Miller thinks, _the kid deserves to get far, far away from this mess._

Among the rest of the attendees were familiar old faces: most of what remained of FOXHOUND, Kasler, Dr. Clark, Anderson, various officials and bigwigs in the field...no one brought up or even seemed to notice the conspicuous absence of the grand organizer himself, or of his trusted lieutenants. No one had, for years.

Campbell had gamely offered to give the eulogy instead when it looked like the honors would likely fall to Miller; _Master, I did meet the man in question first,_ he had said, _so let me shoulder this responsibility._ Good old Roy Campbell, stable and steady like no one else in the business, who had only nodded in solemn understanding when Miller told him he was retiring from FOXHOUND for good.

To the colonel's credit, he limited himself to mostly reminiscing about how he had first met Big Boss during the San Hieronymo incident (and Miller held back a grimace, biting his lip at the mention, _let's leave all that crap behind us_ ), back during the early days of FOX. He was terrifically charismatic, Campbell said, without par on and off the battlefield. A CO unlike any other, even in their relative youth, before the formation of FOXHOUND. Before he was just another madman.

It was surreal, hearing each other tell lies about that grand, ungodly, god-like man, paying their respects to the mighty war hero as if his blood-drenched hands hadn't pushed the world to the brink of nuclear destruction.

It was sickening, offering each other--offering Miller condolences on the loss of a great man, his former commander, his old partner-in-crime. As if he hadn't been the one to push Big Boss to the edge so many times-- _tell me what I should do, Kaz, tell me like you used to_ \--

It had barely been a week since his death and a meager few days into the new millennium, and history was already being rewritten. The gears of the Patriots' machinations were already turning, so obviously pulling the strings at an event the mastermind himself wasn't even present for.

Was this the future Big Boss had fought to create? Was it the world they wanted to save from him?

There hadn't even been anything in the casket, Miller knew. He'd heard the roaring of the flames, faint over David's radio yet deafening like thunder all the same. There would have been little left of that body to inter. Already consumed to ash. Scattered, swept away by the cold winds of a barren wasteland.

(It was Christmas Eve when it happened, Miller tries not to think, tries not to remember--the way he would worry about getting presents for everyone on base, how he would try to get Miller to keep vigil with him through the warm winter nights, watching the starlit sky overhead--)

They had all been so--young? No. Stupid, yes, and brimming with hate like acid. Overflowing with it, drowning in it. They had thrown away so much and wreaked their hatred like there was nothing else left for them. 

And for fucking what?

_War is pain, and hate is woe._

Campbell's voice rings out across the field and shakes him from his thoughts. The colonel's about to head back to his own vehicle, and he's asking if Miller has his ride back arranged or not. As he turns to answer, Miller spots out of the corner of his eye two figures standing among the withered trees some distance away. They almost look as if they're visiting some other grave, but at least one of them is unmistakable. No one else would wear spurs to a funeral.

The years haven't been kind to any of them, and Revolver Ocelot is no exception. The long white hair tied up behind him betrays his age, even if much of his face is masked by dark sunglasses. Unlike him, Ocelot only wore those when the weather called for it...the idea of the notorious demon interrogator himself shedding tears is--indecent, almost. Miller can't help but notice the plain black band around his upper arm either, the old Diamond Dogs brassard transformed into a symbol of mourning in classic Ocelot-style sentimentality. 

They haven't contacted each other, let alone met since the fall of Outer Heaven; Ocelot had severed their ties like a rotting limb after that phone call. _Sharp man, as always._ Miller's left hand tenses around the head of his cane as he steadily walks back toward the colonel.

There's a woman at Ocelot's side, blonde, older than either of them, also dressed in funeral black. Her eyes, puffy even through heavy makeup, land on Miller for the briefest of moments. She barely inclines her head in Ocelot's direction, whispering something in what sounds like Russian, but the man beside her doesn't react. 

The two let him pass by without incident--no, it's as if Miller doesn't exist at all. Not even a glance, like he's less than a ghost. He used to worry himself sick over what he and Ocelot would do if Big Boss didn't make it off the battlefield; the thought of them having to bury him would keep him up at night just as often as the pain radiating through his missing limbs. Yet he never once imagined it would play out like this. 

It's truly the end, then, with their boss gone. Zero has won, molding the world in his image while they all feed off of him like parasites once more. What is there left to do but try and wash his hands of all this?

(But he can hear Big Boss's last words booming in his ears over the rumbling engine of Campbell's car, repeated like a mantra, a curse, _it's not over yet, it's not over yet._ )

 

 

*

 

 

 **v.** _cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you_

Late February has snuck up on Miller before he's realized it. When he first came to these northerly reaches of the earth, it seemed like it would stay dark forever during the long winters. Now, as the daylight hours steadily lengthen to illuminate the bone-white landscape and somber dark pines for a few moments more each day, it feels like spring is upon Alaska faster and faster each year.

Or maybe it's his perception of time itself that's changing. It happens to everyone as they get older, he's read, but his endless daily routine of chores and taking care of dogs must be making time slip beyond his notice that much more. There's really not much else to do here, after all, when he's this far away from everything but the local wildlife.

It's been hours since sunset and his little corner of the world is bathed in silvery moonlight. He's looking through the books in the cramped shelf built into one of the bedroom walls, old things that he'd never had the time to read before, back in the day. Anything to pass the time alone in his room, still sparsely decorated even after years of sleeping in it.

(The small cabin he lives in doesn't feel like home. He wants to think that he's used to that feeling after a lifetime of wandering and rebuilding, but the fact always rattles in the back of his mind that nothing ever felt more like home than Mother Base did.)

He hears his dogs barking in their quarters--not as a warning, but excitedly, as if wanting to play. They've probably spotted some creature snooping outside the window that he'll need to shoo away with a broom. He's turning the corner into the darkness of the main room thinking bad thoughts about bald eagles when he notices that the front door is slightly ajar. He's certain that he'd locked it, he always does--

There's a sudden sharp prick at his neck and Miller crumples to the ground. His prosthetics are deadweight at his sides, strange aches at the seams like he's never felt before. As he struggles to even sit up against the wall, he sees that the lock hasn't been forced; the intruder must have snuck in some other way and opened the door from the inside to distract Miller for that single moment.

And then he hears him, again, quiet but deliberate footsteps sounding across the wooden floor as polished boots come around from behind. _No spurs this time_ , he notices for some reason. 

"I should've known this would happen, Miller," that familiar scratchy voice growls out, "ever since the day we met."

Miller can only spit out a hollow half-chuckle as their eyes meet. "What took you so long?"

The shadows crawling along the room make Ocelot's face look so hollowed out, almost ghoulish, but Miller supposes he doesn't look much better either. The man's still wearing the black armband, because of course he is, but it doesn't exactly pull the whole aging Old West sheriff look together.

Miller's body feels sluggish, but not exactly painful besides where his prosthetics connect to the rest of him. Was he injected with some kind of muscle relaxant? If this were just a simple assassination, there'd be myriad ways to take him out instantly. Ocelot evidently wants to talk, with Miller as his captive audience. "Why come after me now...? You've had years to kill me, if that's what you wanted to do."

He replies, matter-of-factly, "You're no longer needed."

Years ago, McDonnell Miller would have rankled something fierce at this insult. He would have pursued the hints of goings-on behind Ocelot's words, keen like a bloodhound on seeing where the rabbit hole led.

But he can't bring himself to care now, not anymore.

He watches Ocelot take a small black case out of his coat and lay it on the cheap plastic table behind him. There's a glint of moonlight reflecting off of something inside, but nothing else is visible besides that. Ocelot turns to face him; the movement is familiar, long-burned into his memory--slowly approaching him, the prisoner, as if for questioning. 

Interrogation always was Ocelot's specialty.

"He saved you, Miller. Saved you from rotting in obscurity in Central America, from that hellhole in Afghanistan, he rained down fire upon your enemies and made all your dreams come true. And that was how you repaid him? Having him put down like some mad dog?"

"He _was_ mad, a monster--"

"You made him that way," Ocelot retorts, voice growing ever slightly more strident. "What exactly was it that you said? No greater good? No just cause? You wanted revenge, you wanted to wage war, and what did he do but deliver?"

Miller tries not to wince visibly at those words, at least not in front of Ocelot; it hurts like a fresh wound all over again, even though these are things he's said to himself many times over already.

"You made him and you _killed him_ \--who exactly is the monster here? Did you think that killing him would make everything right?" His arms are moving more fervently now, almost bordering on self-parody. "Did you think you could just run away? How much blood is on your hands, Kazuhira Miller?"

 _Fuck you, Shalashaska, you watched us drag each other into hell and danced right alongside us, dogs will lick up your blood just the same, you wicked beast_ \--

"Then what about you, Ocelot? You're one to fucking talk about blood on my hands, you fucking sadist, when they're _still_ whispering about you in Afghanistan after what you did there twenty years ago!"

"Don't even try to paint me as a hypocrite. You know damn well that I don't care about trifles like that, and I never have--the only thing I hold for certain is this: death before disloyalty," Ocelot snarls back. "Which you sure as hell don't."

"Why don't you fucking stop already with that loyal-to-the-end bullshit, he's _dead_ ," Miller spits, lashing out, trying desperately to hurt Ocelot for once (and oh but does it tear at his heart too, saying that)--he knows he can't compete with this born-and-raised career spy, who's only sharpened his tongue deadlier in the decade since they last spoke. But that doesn't mean he can't try. "Some fucking 'man on the inside' you were, huh? When in the end you couldn't even..."

Ocelot's mouth twists up into something bitter and humorless. There's something wild in the man's eyes like Miller's never seen before. "Oh, Kaz. You've never, ever known anything." His voice is poisonously soft now, almost pitying, but those eyes stare down at him still shining strangely. "Always the pawn to be played, aren't you?"

"Just...get on with it and fucking kill me like you want to. What's the point of dragging it out like this?" Miller has to hiss and gasp now, because it's steadily getting harder and harder for him to breathe. "Take your goddamn revenge already, you came here to put a bullet in between my eyes so fucking--do it--"

"No bullets this time, I'm afraid," Ocelot answers contemptuously. "I'd love to leave my mark like that for the world to see, but unfortunately the mission doesn't even afford me that one pleasure." He turns back to the table, and Miller can tell he's preparing something there. "It must have been so painful for him, those last moments." His voice is soft again, like he's talking out loud to himself. "I know for a fact he was trained to resist all sorts of torture, you know, but immolation...even I wouldn't resort to that. Luckily for you."

Ocelot turns to face him again. The syringe in his hand shines gunmetal gray against red leather, even in the darkness. The instrument of his own imminent destruction is staring Miller straight in the face, but he's--he's tired, has been for so long now.

"You should be well aware of how this works, Miller. You've seen me do this many times, I'm sure, and so many of them were on your orders." Ocelot crouches down in front of him and lifts the sunglasses off his face with one hand, tucking them carefully into an inner pocket of his coat.

"Wha...what are you taking those for?"

"A souvenir, perhaps?" He answers blithely as if joking, but that gaze is still ice pick sharp.

(In the thirty years they've known each other Miller's never been able to figure out what exactly of Ocelot was façade and deception, and what was genuine. Maybe all there ever was of him is mask layered on top of mask surrounding a hollow nothingness, empty of anything except for _him_. Would there be anything real left of the man now, or was it all withered away like a sunflower deprived of the sun?)

Whatever Miller was injected with before is leaving him entirely boneless now. Ocelot has to tilt his head back and to the side, exposing his neck. His breathing comes heavy and labored, and his eyelids are starting to sag against his will. All he can do is watch as the needle is steadied against his pulse.

"So this...this is the end, huh..." 

"...for you, yes. But Kaz," Ocelot whispers sharply as he grips Miller's face to stare at him one last time, "I'm not going to run away, waiting to die in the middle of nowhere like some wretched has-been. I'm breaking free of Zero's chains. I'll fight until my dying breath, like John did. I'll save him." 

Mind shrouded in fog as it is, Miller can't really wrap his head around those words uttered like an oath. But he finally recognizes that feral gleam in Ocelot's eyes--it's the look of a man hellbent on setting the world ablaze, the true believer walking triumphant into a funeral pyre of his own making.

He had been like that too, once.

There's barely a flinch from him as the needle pushes in, not that he can move much at all now. "Snake and I..." he murmurs weakly as fire begins to spread through his blood, "We really fucked up, didn't we? And we, we both deserved what we got in the end...all of us will." He feels Ocelot let go of his face through the pain, sees him retreat back into the darkness that's encroaching upon his vision. "Ocelot...don't think you're not going to get what's coming to you, either..." 

Ocelot's mouthing some words back in response, but Miller can't hear him anymore.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ever since i saw the phrase "unknown assailant" in peace walker i knew what had to happen ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> i love pain i'm fucking ready to face god and walk backwards into hell GIVE IT TO ME KOJIMA
> 
> edit: i wasn't ready for that


End file.
